


Equine Therapy

by MissMarvelousModeste



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academy Era, Dammit Jim, Established Relationship, Fluff, Horses, M/M, Mild Language, OHC(s) (Original Horse Character(s)), What Happens on the Ranch Stays on the Ranch, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 10:51:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17486762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMarvelousModeste/pseuds/MissMarvelousModeste
Summary: Back pain is a bitch but there's an unusual, albeit worthwhile, cure available.





	Equine Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by an actual conversation/anecdote.

It is, like most things, Jim's fault. Even when it isn't Jim's fault, Leonard will swear frontways and sideways, backward, forwards, upside down and inside out that it is, in fact, Jim's fault. No matter how bruised and bloody and stinking of bourbon and bad decisions he might be- it's Jim's fault. For either having the idea in the first damn place or hearing about something and turning those too blue, too wide, too innocent when he knows they're anything but eyes on Leonard and prompting him along. Or doing the idiot idea all on his own until Leonard has to sweep in and clean him up or haul him out of the fire before getting dragged in his own damn self.

Last night before a two-week break, something to ready them for the rhythm of long missions interrupted by shore leave, and they should've been packing and sleeping. Should have.

Were not.

Didn't.

Because a two for one on wells or one dollar piss beer special or a wet jersey contest that Leonard had no real desire to partake in or observe but those damn eyes. It'd be better for him if Jim wasn't aware he had Leonard wrapped around his pinky finger- but no dice. He knows. And manages not to abuse the trick too terribly much aside from this particular instance that ends with them both getting tossed around, backs against hard plastic when someone or other throws them in the middle of what absolutely is not a brawl. A scuffle, maybe, but not a brawl. It's all very civil up 'till it isn't, a bottle gets broken. A little bit of blood from a busted nose. Leonard gets Jim's sorry (figurative and literal) booze soaked ass out of there before Campus security rolls up.

Last thing they need before a flight is getting detained and, maybe, it's Jim's way of taking his mind off the flight. He's better than he used to be by a hair. The fear's still there. Constant. Awareness of every variable required to keep them whole and alive until they dock but he's gotten a hell of a lot better than hiding in the bathroom, praying for death.

So they sleep it off. Scramble to pack in the morning and he doesn't at first pay much mind to the twinge along his spine. He took a fall, that shit happens. He's got a flight to drag an overgrown toddler to and a hangover to ignore. Easier said than done, especially when saying it means dealing with the gravel-rough rasp of his own voice echoing in the cavern of shitty decisions and equally shitty beer left behind by the night before.

He doesn't think about how he's so slow to stand after sprawling awkwardly in his seat next to Jim, the two of them always drifting toward each other like they're dragged along by gravity. Bound by it like two dogs on a leash, all lean limbs, and snuffling half conscious mutters. Leonard's more worried about the crick in his neck he's rubbing out as they stand (slowly, carefully) and grab their half-empty bags to hail a taxi.

It's another equally long, equally awkward tangle of bodies and cushions as Jim sleeps off the last leg of his hangover while making use of his favorite pillow, Leonard's shoulder. Head nestled up under Leonard's chin which makes for an awkward posture to hold him upright and keep his head tipped in such a way as to avoid getting the rattling, nasal snores from cutting into his ear, or drool dripping down his shirt. Now and then he has to shift to adjust Jim's pointy elbows, his weight that keeps making Leonard's arm go to pins and needles, the angle of his head to keep the distracting, hot wash of breath from wafting over his throat. Legs tucked up in the back, torso curled to cradle Jim properly- for about an hour till they reach the ranch.

All sunshine and smiles as he's well recovered, Jim tumbles right on out of the cab, loose and limber. Ready for another round of giving the world hell or- more appropriately- falling in line with miss Elanora's chore list. Leonard is slower to slide out, twisting and popping his aching back. Just the trip. No trouble, nothing really wrong to worry about.

And then he hefts the bags. Something complains along his lumbar region, a sudden flash of heat that abates as he straightens, tension knotting up in the small of his back- but that's not entirely unfamiliar. A hot soak and a few stretches before he turns in should sort him.

But it's them, it's Jim, and they don't visit half as often as his family would like- So it means dinner. It means helping with dinner, standing and working at potatoes and pie crust and greens and roast chicken, falling into prep and fry like handling triage in surgery, every cut laser straight, every seasoning measured by hand and pure muscle memory. Things that took him forever to regain, things he only got back because Jim keeps forgetting to eat before the mess and every other delivery option around their two-bedroom bunk is well closed for the night.

Bits of who he was, before, filtering in like sunshine through a cloudy veil.

Meaning he talks more as he cooks, he laughs more. He lets the warmth of home, of family, of Jim trying not to get covered in flour or hauled into potato peeling duty wash away his awareness of the dull twinges and complaining of his spine, creeping up vertebra by vertebra until it's spread like a vine to a new tangle between his shoulder blades.

Stretching helps, soaking helps.

The shitty mattress he never thought about replacing in his childhood room, Jim sprawled like a leaden weight over his chest pressing each and every antiquated spring against complaining muscles throughout the long, humid night?

Does not. Fucking. Help.

He's in a right state come morning- souring his mood. They had plans for their break- Leonard had plans for showing Jim a little more of the home he'd loved, the ways a man can settle in his skin without throwing himself tit first into trouble. Every last one of those notions is tied up in the idea he'd be ambulatory. As it is- Jim assuming his innocence as he often, always, does roll right off of Leonard's chest to land with a quiet thud on the worn thin carpet, mushing his face into Leonard's shoulder with a whine that may or may not be a cry for sustenance. Meanwhile, Leonard is trapped staring straight up at the rough patch job he'd made after taking a header into the wall while his legs were longer than he'd thought they'd been mid-puberty. The crack had spread up to the ceiling and as mortified as he'd been then? He is now.

Seething.

"You know, Bones-" Drawling and darling and achingly dear for all that it stirs up every which way that this? Is. Jim's. Fault. "I can hear you grinding your teeth. You just woke up, what could you possibly be mad about?"

Chin on his hands, hands on Leonard's chest as again those glimmering, giddy eyes bore a hole in the side of Leonard's face. Like he's ignoring Jim on purpose instead of unable to move his neck in the slightest. Slowly, testing his range of motion Len lets his hand slide up to tangle in the downy hair at Jim's nape, dragging him up enough that he can meet his eyes- glare at him good and proper.

"My back." He snarls, lips curled back from his teeth, voice clipped and cutting. "Is locked up."

"What?" To his credit, Jim does list up to quit leaning on Leanord, quit driving his spine into the devil's own needles of archaic springs and creaking discomfort. Fluttering like birds his hands drift to Leonard's shoulders, his biceps, his chest- like if he traces the shape of him he'll brush off the pain like so much dust. Which is mighty sweet but entirely unhelpful when his nails skitter along a ticklish patch of Leonard's ribs, prompting an instinctual, defensive twist and curl away from the too light touch.

Choaked off laughter becomes a sharp crack of an oath. Good news: He's on his side. Bad news: He doesn't think he'll be moving again for a month. "My back."

Groaning, now, rather than glowering. "Is locked up."

"How? You didn't hit the bar that hard-" Jim's brows draw down, visibly going back through the series of unfortunate events he's visited upon Leonard's poor, maligned spine. Each bit of evidence has him curling more and more inward, that light in his eyes going sharp, blame settling on his shoulders. "But we passed out on the floor. And you carried both our bags to the shuttle. Then the taxi. And- this mattress does suck, Bones, I didn't want to say anything but maybe-"

Jim's eyes dart to the door, never mind the hour, nevermind this is actually his fault fifteen times over and Leonard will happily tell him so after the fact- watching all that bubbling energy slowly deflate, watching guilt cloud over Jim's mood? Twists in Leonard's gut enough to prompt action.

With a grunt he pushes and twists, rolling over to face Jim properly, one thick arm looping around Jim's shoulders to pull him back against Leonard's chest. There. Problem solved.

He regrets it immediately.

All that motion tangled the already wound spasm at the base of his spine into a jabbing agony he can only muffle by mashing his face into the bare skin of Jim's shoulder, jaw clenched, fingers gripped tight against familiar, freckled flesh. Breathing through the stabbing ache he becomes aware of Jim's hands smoothing through his hair, down his back. A firm pressure at his nape that doesn't do anything for the rest of his spine but it's contact. Comfort. It kicks the white noise layered over the sounds of his hitched breathing away so he can hear the mishmash of nonsense coming out of Jim's mouth.

"-I mean it could be bullshit but it could be worth a shot if you didn't bring your medkit and you don't want to be in bed all week- not this bed but a better one? We'd find you a better one. I'm sure I can make the eyes at your mom-" Filters down, all stream of consciousness spilling right from Jim's brain to Leonard's ears, Kirk at his most honest, most earnest, and least grown. the frantic need to fix when something isn't a simulation or test or something he can actively put his hands on is something he and Leonard have in common- their reactions are where they differ. Jim talks through his discomfit and uncertainty. Leonard?

Swallows it down.

Just like he swallows down another round of vicious cursing as he tries to sit up. Slowly. Jim shifts to tuck himself under Leonard's arm, easing him upright bit by bit until he can sit up and breathe at the same time. Look, Ma, no hands. "What could be bullshit?"

"Huh, Bones?" Jim's murmurs, leaning away enough to look Leonard in the eye. "Oh. Horseback riding. Something about the motion being good for loosening up your posture? I mean- we wanted to do that anyway, right? Two birds, one stone."

"Tactically sound if we manage to get me on a horse in the first place." As long as he's got a hand on Jim? The pain isn't so unbearable. He can squeeze Jim's shoulder or bicep or wrist, whichever's closest. Human stress ball, though usually they're not supposed to cause the stress that prompts their use. Jim's just special that way. Besides, a moderate amount of stress is supposed to be good for the heart. Right?

Right.

Dressing is an adventure and a half, all stuttering stops and sharp, snarling oaths spitting on tequila and all it's vile whims, on reinforced, not near rounded enough bartops and terrible seating for shuttles and taxis alike, on Jim's need to pass out in such a way that drives him into the tile or springs or whatever they're sleeping on at the moment. Plan in motion Jim takes it in stride. Helps Leonard into his shirt, his jeans, his boots without so much as a half moment spent kneeling to help the worn leather slide into place, lashes thick and dark above familiar, vaguely guilty blue.

Any other time the image would do something for Leonard, but his spine has other priorities. Like complaining about every jarring motion and step.

If he could get away with telling it to quit bitching and have it work? He would. As it stands (wobbly as the rest of him), Leonard stomps down on his desire to drag this into anything athletic since he distinctly lacks the ability and focuses on getting from the bedroom out to the stable. Jim's uncharacteristically silent the whole trip. He only perks up to snag the offered thermos of coffee and basket Elanora packed for them the night before. It might've been that Leonard mentioned early morning riding as a way to start their vacation. He certainly hadn't planned on being laid low by his own damn spine.

A benefit of the Ranch aside from the humid warmth and scent of green that screams earth, grounded, <i>home</i>\- owning your own land meant owning your own space for horses, the stable not all that far from the house proper. TJ, Leonard's Grandfather, a withered strip of a man all height and little breadth like a wire drawn tight through a too slim die, motions inside before either of them can say much of anything.

"..." Considering Leonard's in no condition to try and actually saddle up horses for them and Jim probably has no goddamn idea what he'd be doing? It's a kindness, despite the ever lingering tension between TJ and Leonard that everyone involved with knows better to speak on. They're civil. Rightly that's all they need to be. Len manages a nod that's more of a wobble as Jim helps him over to stairs he hasn't needed since he was six, leading up to a saddle on a fine, ridiculously large creature.

Hades is a Percheron- nineteen hands tall, sleek black, and from a distance? Didn't much look different from any other horse. Not really. It isn't until you start walking close you realize exactly how massive he stands. Like someone asked themselves 'how ridiculously large can we make this thing' and went an extra five percent afterward. For all that he's long of leg and broad of shoulder, Hades holds still as Jim helps Leonard stiffly make his way up into the saddle. No wickering, no fuss, standing calm and breathing easy even when the gate swings open. Jim, on the other hand, gets Gunpowder. Cuz TJ may or may not be salty over something or other that he'd done or said or thought while in Georgia, keeping track is a bitch and a half. Leonard's long since given up on trying to sort out the man's mind.

Gunpowder is, like her name, spirited. Not skittish so much as she's all tawny gold tightly wound energy, a Mustang TJ won in a poker game of all things. Mindful and vaguely menacing when Jim swings a leg up- she doesn't buck but as soon as the path is clear? She's off like a shot, Jim's crackling, giddy laughter trailing behind him like so much dust. Leaving Hades and Leonard staring after her without any real urge to follow suit.

At least not at that particular speed. It's less of a canter and more of a mosey- Hades well accustomed to Leonard's way of guiding more with his heels than the reigns, a nudge now and then to keep him on the unmarked path that leads around to the back edge of the property. Now and then there's a glimpse of gold and black, Gunpowder taking a leap over a fallen branch or a fence- behavior Jim shouldn't encourage but does with whoop after enthused holler. Their pace is slow enough to keep Leonard's gut from tightening up to match his spine, Hades ambles along, the slow, rolling pace actually doing a fair bit to loosen the snarled tangle of nerve and muscle along Leonard's L3 and L4, spreading as gradually as the pain had crept up on him the day before. By the time they catch up Jim's worn himself out- or Gunpowder's lost her first and possibly second wind- Leonard's sitting tall in the saddle and actually able to lean over to where Jim's tossed himself from Gunpowder's back in a careless sprawl at the base of a peach tree.

Starfish spread across the grass, head thrown back, mouth dropped open for great rasping gasps of air- Jim's a fair sight. Leonard's lost count of how often he's seen Jim similarly spread across sheets or tile or kitchen counter, flopped back just as boneless, just as breathless, though the source of sweat beading on his skin is something a little more wholesome. But here he is. A familiar, golden reward for sticking it out at a steady clip instead of giving up when the first real knot came loose, leaving Leonard's lasstisumus dorsi five kinds of sore. With far more grace than he'd managed even getting out of bed that morning, he slips down from the saddle, giving Hades' haunch a pat. The massive beast wanders over to Gunpowder, nosing at her shoulder- as though Jim gave her a treat and she was holding out.

He might've. Leonard couldn't tell. And Gunpowder had a habit of keeping sweets and fruit to herself.

Jim's pretty, pretty baby blues flutter open- any celebratory crowing in regard to being right about this absurd damn trick actually working is muffled, swiftly, by Leonard's lips pressed against his. Too warm to be entirely chaste, not heated enough to really lead anywhere- he keeps one hand along Jim's cheek, the other braced against the tree behind him. Mantled over the quicksilver idiot like he'd meant to be the night before, Leonard takes his time kissing Jim breathless- mostly to avoid any commentary on his spine or impending extracurriculars. While the start might've been rough- he's got two weeks of this. Peace, quiet- and Jim.

At least until the next round of cheap beer and bad decisions rolls around.


End file.
